I saw her turn toward the door, cradling my baby in her arms.
A surge of adrenaline shot through me, cutting right through the haze.
I cried out, forcing my voice past the rawness in my throat. "No! Please don't take him out. Please, I beg you!"
The staff froze mid-step. Their expressions shifted instantly, their eyes flicking toward each other, unsure and a little suspicious.
"Amara," the lead surgeon, Dr. Jones, said gently, stepping closer with a warm, careful smile, "your baby's perfectly healthy—six pounds, eight ounces. And he looks a lot like you."
Dr. Jones raised the little bundle slightly so I could see him, her voice softening as she continued. "You've just gone through surgery. Your body needs rest. Your family should look after him for now."
But she must've seen the panic on my face. The dread must have been written all over me, because her tone shifted again, this time more cautious and understanding.
"Your mother-in-law's been completely out of line, but don't worry about her and just focus on recovering. She's not going to hurt the baby."
No, she didn't get it. None of them did.